


ripple

by Sophisticated_Adult



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, And yet, Decepticon Hot Rod, M/M, Ratchet did not sign up for these gremlin children, probably background megop, prowl's mission to put a baby in jail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:23:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29594139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophisticated_Adult/pseuds/Sophisticated_Adult
Summary: “...what of it, Prime?” Prowl asked, glancing at the picture. It was one of the clearest shots they had of the Decepticon, straight from Sunstreaker's visual feed of the battle. Up close, with his startled expression after Sunstreaker had followed his attempted feint, it was clear just how young he was, big optics frozen in the still frame as they widened further.And just howbluethose optics were.G1 Decepticon Hot Rod AU ft. hotlock (and Ratchet Suffering)
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Hot Rod, Ratchet & Hot Rod
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	ripple

**Author's Note:**

> sir are you aware that you are a baby: the fic

“I do have a concern,” Optimus said, following Prowl's “any other business?” just before the meeting wrapped up. He flicked at the projector in the centre of the table and soon had it displaying the concern in question. Next to him Ratchet huffed, folding his arms, a dead giveaway that at least one other person in the room shared his worry.

“...what of it, Prime?” Prowl asked, glancing at the picture. It was one of the clearest shots they had of the Decepticon, straight from Sunstreaker's visual feed of the battle. Up close, with his startled expression after Sunstreaker had followed his attempted feint, it was clear just how young he was, big optics frozen in the still frame as they widened further.

And just how _blue_ those optics were.

Ironhide swore, one large fist curling into itself. “Thought you was overstating it, but slag, that's a damn kid.” 

“A damn Autobot-looking kid, for sure,” Jazz agreed, one hand propping up his chin, the other drumming restlessly on the table. 

“With Decepticon insignias,” Prowl pointed out drily. Three, in fact. One across his chest, glowering at them in the photo, and two smaller ones on the tips of his spoilers, like seeker wings. His racecar alt-mode and even his paintjob, loud and obnoxious, screamed _Autobot_.

“They can easily slap their brand on a prisoner and shove 'em out to get shot,” Ratchet growled. 

“Doesn't look or act much like a prisoner to me,” Jazz said, earning a glare, and in return his visor winked on and off at their grumpy, overprotective medic. “He woulda taken the opportunity by now to get himself with us if he had any sense.”

Prowl shrugged. “He's one of the new troops Megatron spacebridged in from Cybertron two weeks ago. It's as simple as that.”

“Right.” Ironhide snorted. “Buncha seekers, some o' Turmoil's crew desperate to get away from him, an' here's this rando kid we found, don't mind the blue optics...”

“Regardless,” Optimus insisted, leaning forward with both hands planted flat on the table, “I would rest easier having more information, directly from the source.” He levelled a meaningful look at Jazz, who straightened and saluted. 

“On it, Prime.”

Prowl's optic twitched.

\---

Never let it be said that Jazz wasn't scarily good at his job.

The unconscious 'Con was delivered neatly to the Ark part way through the next raid, to the medbay rather than the brig under Ratchet's insistence. In the aftermath (a successful defence; only minor wounded) Ratchet was finishing putting the dents out of Bumblebee's arm when the red and yellow (and...pink?) eyesore began to stir.

Bee glanced between him and the 'Con meaningfully, but Ratchet patted him. 

“Run along,” he said absently, wiping down some equipment. “It's nothing I can't handle, Bee.”

“Right...” the yellow mini looked doubtful, but he backed out slowly, keeping an eye on the stirring 'Con until the medbay door swooshed closed. Ratchet sighed. So there was probably going to be an audience of eavesdroppers in the hallway just outside in about five minutes, if he knew anything about Autobots.

The 'Con blinked blue ( _blue_ ) optics open slowly, then scrunched them shut with a hiss. 

Not the first time a Decepticon in his medbay had that reaction. A combination of the white strip-lights plus the overbearing bright orange walls was a big contrast to – Ratchet could only assume – a dank, damp metal tub with several miles of ocean bearing down on it.

 _:He's up:,_ Ratchet pinged Optimus, as requested. _:I need those ten minutes:_ he added as a reminder, he had some pointed questions that needed asking _before_ Optimus came in and started freaking the poor kid out.

“Hey, easy,” Ratchet murmured as said kid groaned and managed to keep his optics open this time, looking blearily around until they snapped on to him with _very_ 'Con-like focus. “You're all right,” he continued. 

_:I may be delayed,:_ Optimus chose that moment to reply as blue optics surged open in surprise and recognition, _:Megatron is requesting negotiations.:_

Already?! 

Ratchet forced down his own surprise at that – that was something for his Prime to sort out, but still, he couldn't help but recall the time they'd had Starscream in the brig for nearly a full week before Megatron even deigned to answer the (many, _many_ ) communication requests. Popular belief was that the _Nemesis_ had been enjoying a nice, Starscream-less break.

“You – what –” the young Decepticon lunged forward, or rather, try to. Energy cuffs zinged to life, snapping around his wrists, and he fell back on the berth with a yowl.

“It's okay,” Ratchet held his hands out as the kid snarled, “you'll only get hurt if you try something _really_ dumb. Just – keep still, is my advice.” He'd rather not have the damn things at all, but Prowl had put up with a lot today and this was the only way he'd agree to having the kid alone in the medbay instead of unceremoniously tossed into the brig.

Right. Ratchet retrieved a datapad as the kid scowled at him, dragging himself to the furthest corner of the berth, holding his bound wrists in front of him like a shield. 

“So,” he tapped the datapad with a stylus, the kid's optics following the movement, “can I get a name?”

Lips curled into a snarl, but there were no fangs, Ratchet noticed.

“Okay,” he said. “How do you spell that?”

“Wha-” the kid sputtered, “go frag yourself, Autobot!” 

“So we'll go with-” Ratchet approximated the snarl from earlier, mimed jotting it down on the datapad. “All right. Next question-”

“Hot Rod,” the kid suddenly muttered, looking away.

“Thank you.” He updated the field name at the top, then spun the datapad around to show his patient, who squinted at the glyphs Ratchet had guessed from his pronunciation, although Hot Rod had an accent he couldn't quite place. “I'm Ratchet, chief medical officer. Nice to meet you. Now – would you say you're getting any kind of nutrient supplements, or are you just having whatever energon's to hand on the _Nemesis_?”

“Huh?” Hot Rod's face scrunched in confusion. Ratchet pressed on, tabbing over to the scanner readout he'd taken when his patient had been unconscious: “You're deficient in, well, name any metals a growing frame needs, you don't have enough. Your iron levels in particular are atrocious. When was your last frame upgrade?”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Hot Rod demanded, his yellow spoiler flapping in agitation. “Thought I was your prisoner?”

“We're Autobots,” Ratchet said. _And our species is dying and the less deaths on our hands, the better,_ he didn't say out loud – it was a sore point between him and Prowl, and he was already wearing on their tactician's good graces enough today.

“Right.” Hot Rod rolled his optics. “Let me guess. You saw this -” he indicated at himself, in particular pointing out his optics, “and thought I was one of _you_.”

“We're not that dumb,” Ratchet said, willing to give Optimus the benefit of the doubt on that one. “Just...very concerned. And you didn't answer my question about the frame upgrade,” he added.

“Dunno,” Hot Rod muttered sulkily. “And I'm not a damn Autobot, okay?”

“Didn't say you were,” Ratchet countered, calculating percentages for the medgrade he would need. He frowned and wrote 'never', then put a hopeful (?) next to it for the upgrade question.

“Hang on,” Hot Rod sat forward suddenly, the cuffs sparking but inflicting no damage. “You need to – look, if someone called Deadlock shows up, you, uh, you need to not fight him.” 

“Really,” Ratchet deadpanned, finalising the order for the medgrade. Hot Rod nodded, oblivious to Ratchet's unimpressed-ness.

“Really. He's, uh probably not taking this well.” Hot Rod was painfully earnest. 

“I wouldn't worry too much. If this Deadlock has any sense, he'll let Megatron do the negotiating for him.” 

“Um.” Hot Rod shifted, spoiler wings fluttering nervously. 

One of the drones arrived carrying the medgrade Ratchet had ordered. He took it and held it to the light, inspecting it critically, then nodded in satisfaction. 

“Drink this,” he said, pushing it on the younger mech, surprise blooming in his blue optics. 

“Y-you're _giving_ me fuel?!” Hot Rod sputtered. 

“I'm treating my patient,” Ratchet replied, completely honest. As Hot Rod's spoiler perked up further and he drank eagerly, there were obvious dents and marks, scrapes that made Ratchet's fingers itch. They could so easily be fixed, and Prowl would notice and have his aft if he did. _Aiding the enemy. Wasting resources_. (Ratchet's time and energy, more like).

The knowledge fired up the side of him that knew and had known for decades this whole thing was a tragic waste of time, if Optimus and Megatron just _talked_ \- 

“Turn around,” Ratchet said, “little to the side, there's some dents there I can get out for you.”

“What is this, a spa?” Hot Rod smiled, but at this point he was thoroughly amenable to his situation (possibly a new record for a Decepticon) and easily complied, finishing off his cube as Ratchet inspected the dents. Including some that looked suspiciously like finger-marks.

He grit his teeth and got to work.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: https://of-nyon.tumblr.com/
> 
> idk if there'll be more of this because I cannot stress how bad I am at getting a non-oneshot to go anywhere but just pretend Deadlock breaks in successfully but for whatever reason Roddy's still staying at the Ark for now so he's all 'ok, I guess I live here now as well then' (Ratchet probably does it to himself by pulling medical rank or something). 
> 
> (and yeah the 86 movie is...probably not happening in favour of the factions calling a truce and eventually getting a happy ending, but Roddy can still obliterate Unicron if you want)


End file.
